


Remembering Mycie

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Head Injury, M/M, Mild Smut, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Temporary Amnesia, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 22:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: During a case, Sherlock suffers a light head injury. It turns out that he can't remember his nearest and dearest. Except for one person.





	Remembering Mycie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather weird story. And Molly's brief appearance is a bit mean, probably :)

## 1 Fucked Up

“Sir?”

Mycroft looked up. His trusted PA stared down on him with a look of a woman who had addressed her boss several times already; a look of worry and concern. “Anthea?”

“Um, perhaps you should go home, sir?”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft nodded but he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting at his desk, doing nothing but staring at the wall without seeing it. Not that there would have been much to see. It was a grey wall. He was surrounded by grey walls. Inside and outside.

“I believe you are finished with your reports.”

“Do you?” Yes, probably his brain had done its job properly. It still did, thank God. It seemed to run on autopilot most of the times. He was reading, processing, making notes, giving orders how to act on the conclusions he had drawn. Fine. He would be able to recall it, too, if he dug in his enormous brain. But this all happened on a deeper level. The 'here-and-now' level was a different story. A very different one. It was fucked up, if he was inclined to use such a language. But it was appropriate, this phrasing. After Sherrinford, everything had been fucked up.

The pictures of this forsaken day more than two weeks ago kept flickering through his mind. Popped up all the time. Sometimes not even pictures. Feelings. Feelings of his monstrous failures. Guilt. Nasty guilt. Didn’t help anyone. Couldn’t undo anything. Still lingered. Made his brain shut down. Made him immobile, in every possible way.

He had fucked up greatly; Eurus had pushed him down from his throne of superiority and arrogance. The smart one! Ha! The fucked-up one! He was taking to this expression. The only fitting one after all; no sophisticated euphemism would be appropriate. Fucked up. Mycroft Holmes had completely…

“Sir, are you all right?”

Mycroft nodded vehemently. “Of course. Very.”

“You don't have any more meetings today. It would be totally fine if you went home.”

Mycroft nodded again. Home. The house that had been haunted by two scary creatures. Oh, no. In fact haunted by his brother and his beloved ex-flatmate. Oh, no. John Watson was in fact Sherlock's flatmate again, living in the rebuilt flat of 221B Baker Street. His brother's family, of course. He and the little girl. He and the daughter and Sherlock. The family. Fine. Good. Safe. Except if Sherlock went to Sherrinford. He did. Again and again. Why? Playing the violin with baby sister. He had gone there once, with their parents. Mummy had forgiven him. Taken his hand. Forgiveness he didn’t deserve. His stupid mistakes had brought death and demise over innocent people. Had endangered his brother. And his dear John.

And now? Was she really secure now? More monitoring. Other guards. She didn’t talk anymore. Looked good. Didn’t feel good, though. Not because of himself. No. He deserved it. Sherlock hadn't called him after it. Why should he? He had never done. But what if Eurus harmed him in the end? No. Probably she wouldn’t. All this mayhem she had done because she had wanted Sherlock's attention. Context. Yes. He could forbid Sherlock to go there. Easily. Wouldn’t, though.

Abruptly he stood up, startling Anthea. “I'm going home now.”

“Fine.” She looked and sounded relieved but still worried. “I'll let the driver know.”

“Thank you.” He nodded. Time to go home. If his empty house was home. But it wasn't empty. Something was waiting for him. Booze. Best friend now. Only friend, actually. Shutting down his brain. All levels of his brain. Finally he had understood why Sherlock had become an addict. It was easier. Easier than facing the demons along the road soberly. Much better.

He could feel Anthea's stare on his back when he put on his coat and took his umbrella, and left his office. But she had not just sighed, had she? But why not. Useless, that's what he was, now that he was not working anymore.

The world had no use for failing, fucked up Mycroft Holmes.

## 2 Knocked Out

“You stay here, John.”

“I will absolutely not! If you're right, there's a killer in this house!” John pointed at the wrecked building in front of them.

Sherlock glared at him. “Which is exactly why you will stay here!”

The doctor shook his head, disbelieving and pissed off. London East End in the dark. A Sherlock on the loose. Determined to fight the evil guy alone. What could possibly go wrong? Everything. Just everything…  “You can't seriously believe that I'd let you go in there alone! I called Lestrade! The coppers will be here in a few minutes!”

The detective shook his head. “I can't risk that he escapes.”

“Well, then we will go in! Together, as always!”

“Not you, John. You have to think of your child. I endangered you already so much when I took you to Sherrinford. I won't risk your life again. Rosie would never forgive me. And Mary would probably come back just to strangle me.”

John closed his eyes for a moment. Their world had been turned upside down so many times over the course of the last years. Sherlock 'dying' in front of his eyes and then coming back from the dead after two sodding years. The wedding. The pregnancy. Shooting Magnussen. Mary's death and his own unforgivable violence against his best friend. And then Sherrinford… Sherlock had never been the same since that forsaken day. He had become quieter and more melancholic with every passing day. Realising that every try to bond with his sister, why ever he should want that, failed miserably.

 _“She's not talking, John,”_ he had complained every time when he had returned from the prison.

 _“Then why do you still go there?”_ John had asked him again and again.

_“I promised it. I wanted to be a brother for her.”_

And John had bitten his lip and not spoken out what he had thought – _'why don't you try it with Mycroft first?'_   He had said it once and Sherlock's face had darkened even more.

 _“He doesn’t want to talk to me. I know it,”_ he had said.

Holmeses! The most stubborn, freakiest people on the planet! True, Mycroft had not shown up once to give them a case or for any other reason. But then – he had never shown up for any other reason, except when he had searched the flat after Sherlock had taken drugs again… But John didn’t believe for one second that Mycroft had given up on Sherlock. He never would.

“I will not allow you to go in there alone!” John insisted now. They had just repaired the bond of their friendship, as much as it was possible after all that had happened. He wouldn’t lose Sherlock again!

And then Sherlock pushed him backwards, hard, and it came so unexpectedly that John fell on his backside, right on the dirty pavement, and it bloody hurt. Cursing and fuming, he struggled to his feet, but Sherlock was gone.

He ripped his phone out of his pocket and a moment later, he yelled, “Lestrade! Where are you guys?!”

_“On our way! Two minutes!”_

“Sherlock's gone into the house! Alone! Hurry!” And with this he ended the connection and stored his phone just to take out his gun instead, and then he followed his friend, hoping to catch him before he did anything stupid.

*****

“Fuck, Sherlock! Wake up!” The gun still in his hand, he shook Sherlock's shoulder. Again. He heard the sirens outside.

The killer was lying on his back in the nasty stairway, unconscious and tied up. John had used the handcuffs from Sherlock's coat pocket to secure him. It was all good concerning him. He wouldn’t escape anymore.

But Sherlock was also lying on his back, a huge red bump on his forehead, and he wasn't moving. He was breathing though but his pulse was very slow. John had already called an ambulance. He rubbed Sherlock's face. “Please… Wake up, you silly, reckless git!” They had managed to knock each other out simultaneously as it seemed.

And as if he had heard it, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. And then a look of utter panic came to them when his eyes darted to John´s gun, and he proceeded to crawl backwards. “Please! Don't shoot me!”

“What?! Why the hell do you think I would do that?!”

Sherlock managed to get his upper body up, resting on his palms, and he looked up to John through his long lashes. “Please, whoever you are, don't kill me!”

John shook his head, confused to the core. “Oh, fuck! You don't recognise me?!”

“Recognise you? I have never seen you before.”

“Oh great…”

“Boys! Is everything all right?!”

John turned around. “Well, Greg, there are good news and bad news…”

“Hey, that’s the killer, right? All tied up for me!” Lestrade beamed at John and then turned to Sherlock. “Great job! But John was right – you shouldn’t have gone in here alone! Look at your head!”

Sherlock shook said head and then winced at the pain that this caused him. “Do we know each other?”

Greg slowly turned back to John.

The doctor nodded. “These are the bad news…” And then he heard more sirens and knew the ambulance had arrived. Sherlock would be taken care of. He would be fine. And he would soon remember everything – and everybody. John hoped so. Very much…

## 3 Forgotten Friends

“Hey, Molly.”

“John! Is it true? He got hurt and…”

“…lost his memory, yes.” John had waited for the pathologist in front of Sherlock's hospital room in St. Bart's Hospital. They had put him to bed after making sure he didn’t have a concussion or worse, a skull fracture. Basically it seemed all he had suffered was this enormous bump and the headache that was included. And the little inconvenience of not remembering John or Greg or anything else of the near past. “Part of his memory. He knows his own name. He even knows he's a detective. But he can't remember anything about our last case and he doesn't know where he lives.”

“God, that's horrible!” Molly was all big eyes and compassion. She had hurried up from the pathology as soon as John had called her. “Mrs Hudson?”

“She's looking after Rosie for me. Haven't told her yet. We hope that if he sleeps fine tonight, he'll be well again tomorrow.” There was no real explanation for the amnesia. But the brain was a complicated organ. A Holmes' brain above all… It could very well recover overnight. Or tomorrow he wouldn’t even remember how to bind his shoes…

“Can I…?” Molly pointed at the door of Sherlock's room.

“Sure. But be prepared for questioning eyes and even fear… It's hard for him.”

“Of course it is… But if someone can get through to him…”

John refrained from sighing. He had explained Molly why Sherlock had forced her to tell him that she loved him, right on the day after Eurus' game. And he had even tried to carefully make sure she didn’t misjudge his rather convincing 'I love you' that she had forced him to utter first. But he could see that she believed it had been true. It had certainly been, but not in the romantic way her own feelings for Sherlock were. She was a trusted friend for him. And John knew this was already a lot for someone like _'I-Don't-Have-Friends'_ -Sherlock Holmes, Mister _'Alone-Is-What-I-Have-Alone-Is-What-Protects-Me'_. But of course it would not be enough for Molly, who was craving for him so badly… She and Sherlock had not met since Sherrinford, with Sherlock and John being busy with rebuilding 221B and Sherlock going to the prison almost every day… John had met her for handing over Rosie when she looked after her but Sherlock had not.

He followed her into the room, and he could see at once that Sherlock had absolutely no idea who she was.

Pale and strangely small, he was lying in his hospital bed, the heavy white blanket up to his throat, a bandage on his forehead. His blue-green eyes were wide with confusion and a pain that hurt John's heart. It had to be incredibly difficult for his super smart friend to be confronted by people who claimed to be his nearest and dearest but who were just strangers to him. “Who are you?” he asked Molly. “Another doctor?”

She sat down on the chair next to the bed. “Yes, I am a doctor, but not quite like the others. I'm a pathologist here in this hospital, and… I'm the woman you love.”

John closed his eyes. It could really not get any worse. “Well, actually…”

But Sherlock already shook his head. The painkillers seemed to be working as he didn’t wince this time. “No! That's not true! I have never seen you before! And I'm not a man who likes women.”

He had said it with absolute certainty, and even though he was of course wrong about not knowing Molly, John could feel he was very right about the last claim. He had always known that, hadn't he? Yes, the story with Irene had confused him, and she had definitely also confused Sherlock, but John was sure Sherlock had never actually done anything with The Woman. In all probability Sherlock had never done anything sexually with anyone but that didn’t mean he would be incapable of doing it and that he didn’t know which gender he preferred. Perhaps he was asexual. But perhaps he had simply not found the one man who would be worthy of the attention of the second most intelligent man in Britain.

Damn! Mycroft! John hadn't even thought of informing him! But even though it was almost midnight, he would have expected Mycroft to have been already told about what had happened. John knew he and Sherlock were under surveillance by the Secret Service, and that meant by Mycroft. It was strange he had not shown up yet. But what good would it have done? He couldn’t help Sherlock now. Probably Sherlock wouldn’t recognise him either anyway. Better to wait until the morning if Mycroft wasn't still told tonight. Should the mighty man get some sleep, too. Perhaps the morning would show that everything was fine.

Molly was sitting on her chair, slumped together, her shoulders hanging. “You told me you love me…”

Sherlock threw a helpless look at John. Even though he didn’t recognise him, either, John realised that Sherlock trusted him to some extent. The thought was touching him. That trust was more than he actually deserved…

He cleared his throat. “Molly. His sister forced him to do that! To call you and tell you to say that to him! And then you forced him to say it first, and to say it like he meant it! And he did! He loves you as a friend. Well, not right now but…”

“I have a sister?!”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes. Long story. She's… in a prison.”

“What for? What did she do?”

Just killed a heap of people… “Not now, Sherlock. Just… sleep now. Come, Molly. We must give him some rest. Perhaps the memories will come back when he gets some sleep.” He wondered if he just repeated this often enough, he would eventually really believe it…

He turned when Lestrade entered the room after a short knock. “Hey! Hi, Molly!” He tilted his head. “Didn’t recognise you either, huh?”

“No…”

Greg nodded. “It sucks, yes. Anyway… The killer! We found plenty of evidence in his flat! He won't ever see the sun again! Great job!”

“Yeah. And it has only cost him any memories of who he actually is…” John said dryly.

“Yes. But they will come back, won't they?”

“I hope so, Greg. I really do. Well, then. Do you need anything, Sherlock?”

The detective shook his head, looking equally as pathetic as Molly Hooper did. “No. Will sleep now.”

“If you need something during the night, just ring the bell and a nurse will come.”

“I know.”

Yes, he did recall such facts of life. Ring a bell and you will be helped. But the people who loved him were scary strangers to him.

Damn, it _totally_ sucked…

## 4 Hurrying To Hospital

He opened his eyes very slowly. They seemed to be sticky. And the taste in his mouth… awful… But he was used to it already. The morning breath of a beginning alcoholic… Beginning? Or full-blooded already? Mycroft didn’t want to think about it…

At least he had slept deeply. It was almost eight o'clock. He felt… a little less weary than on the evening before. But of course that was only a question of time…

He rolled his heavy body out of the bed and dragged himself to the bathroom. A rather cold shower, a teeth-brushing and a sloppy shave later he came back to the bedroom, opened his huge wardrobe and pulled a suit out of it, not even looking at it. He chose a tie, not caring if it fitted or not. He got dressed, foregoing arm garters, and then he went to the kitchen to make tea. He wasn't hungry. He might have lost a few pounds over the past weeks. Not that he cared, either way.

With a rather lukewarm mug of tea – his brain had shut down again while he had waited for it to get ready – he slowly walked over to the living room. His phone was lying on the table, and he picked it up. He had two missed calls and a few texts.

Not overly interested, he looked at the texts. And suddenly he was very much awake.

Sherlock was in St. Bart's Hospital! Sherlock had suffered a head injury! Sherlock had forgotten almost everything!

He called a cab, ran to put on his coat and picked up his briefcase. Only when he was sitting in the cab that had arrived surprisingly quickly he realised he had forgotten his umbrella. He couldn't have cared less.

He was worried to bits. Sherlock. Something was wrong with _Sherlock_.

*****

John stared at the man who was stalking towards him with his mouth open.

Damn! Doctor John Watson knew a depression when he saw one…

Mycroft Holmes, the impeccable politician, Sherlock's hyper smart brother, looked as if he had been dragged out of hell by his ear. His eyes dead, his appearance scruffy, a tie that didn’t match the colours of his suit, his lips pressed together to a thin line – this man was a mess.

“Doctor Watson,” he said when he was about ten metres away. “How is he?”

“Nothing has changed. I hoped he would regain his memory until the morning, you know, due to sleeping, but he hasn't. The X-rays were fine. No serious injury. But he has no idea who we all are. ”

“He doesn't even recognise _you_?!”

John smiled wryly. “No, he doesn't.”

“Even though you're his family…” Mycroft mumbled.

John grimaced. “He didn’t mean it like that. Of course _you_ are his family!”

He winced at the sad smile Mycroft gave him. “I was. Many years ago I was. Never knew what actually happened… Anyway… You didn’t call our parents, did you?”

“Oh. I must say I didn’t even think about it…”

“No worries. I will take care of it as soon as we know more. But if his mishap ends up in the newspapers, of course they will have to be informed at once.”

“I don't think so. Lestrade handled it all very discreetly.”

“Good. Well, I think I should look at him now.”

John nodded. “But… Be gentle, please. He's overwhelmed by all the strangers he meets who tell him they are his friends… He forgot about Eurus again…”

“Well…”

“Yeah… Nothing bad about that if you ask me… Just… don't freak out when _he_ freaks out…”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking more like himself. “I will do my best,” he said dryly. And then he opened the door and entered Sherlock's room.

*****

Sherlock was sleeping. His face was so pale; his entire appearance oozed vulnerability. His black curls were an unruly mess, his full lips were slightly parted, wetness shimmering between them.

Mycroft felt an overwhelming tenderness for this special young man in the sterile white bed. His little brother. His loose cannon of a capricious baby brother. Running into every danger. Nothing had changed since his childhood days; only the dangers had become worse. But even when Sherlock had been a child, he had been like this. No tree had been too high, no river too wide. And later? The drugs had gotten the best of him, superseded by the murder cases. Danger was his elixir of life, one kind or another.

There was a white bandage on his forehead, certainly covering the bump he had suffered. What had caused the amnesia though? And what would bring the memories back?

He stepped closer, quietly to not disturb him. He heard John breathing behind him. He had never liked this man but he was glad he was here now. Hadn't dropped Sherlock even though he was a stranger to him.

“He looks like an angel,” he mumbled, suddenly blushing about having it said out loud.

But John didn’t laugh or snort. “He always does,” he said quietly. “But he is a bloody stubborn evil sort of angel…”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smiling. “Very true.”

He had spoken too loudly obviously as Sherlock moved and then opened his eyes. And then opened them very widely.

Mycroft made a step back. “Don't be afraid, Sherlock. I'm…”

“Mycie!”

John gasped behind Mycroft, and the politician felt like having received a blow. “Mycie…?” When had Sherlock said this to him the last time? When he had been… eight?!

“Mycie! I know you!” Sherlock trembled in his bed.

“Yes. I'm your brother. Mycroft. You used to call me Mycie when you were little.” Had Sherlock regressed? Did he only remember people from his childhood? But Mycroft looked very different now. Very! He had lost so much weight. And so much hair…

And then Sherlock proceeded to get out of bed, and Mycroft hurried to reach him before he could fall over as his brother looked so groggy. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed when he had closed the distance, and Mycroft almost fainted when Sherlock embraced his waist.

“You're my Mycie! My big brother!” he all but sobbed, pressing his face against Mycroft's soft belly.

“Yes. But you're… you're not a child, Sherlock.” He gingerly put an arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hadn't exactly sounded like a child but there was something softer in his tone than he had ever heard. He sounded so… pure…

“I know that! I'm a detective! And you are the British Government!” Now he did sound more like himself even though what he said was astonishing, given the circumstances.

“Fucking hell…” mumbled the doctor behind him.

“Sherlock… Do you now recognise this man?” Mycroft pointed at John.

Sherlock nodded. “He's Doctor John Watson.” John sighed in gratitude. “He says he's my best friend but I can't remember him,” Sherlock continued mercilessly, and John sighed deeply.

“You will,” Mycroft assured him. He didn’t understand it. How could Sherlock recognise _him_ but not his beloved friend? His _family_? He only realised now how much this situation had hurt him. But now the tables had turned. Now Sherlock seemed to know who his family really was, and it made him stupidly proud… It wouldn’t last though, of course it wouldn’t. Eventually Sherlock's memories would come back, either gradually or all at once, and then everything would be the same as before.

He turned to John. “When will he be released?”

“Tomorrow, I guess. There is no medical explanation for his amnesia and if he is able to get up and stay on his feet, he can go home to Baker Street.”

“No! I won't!” Sherlock yelled. “I want to come with _you_ , Mycie!”

John cleared his throat. “Well, he works all day and…”

“Doctor Watson. Of course I will look after my brother. I will take a week off and do some work from home if necessary, and if he needs more time, it will be arranged.” Somehow he wouldn’t be surprised if his colleagues were actually relieved about not seeing him for a while after the past two weeks…

“Oh. Right…”

Of course Mycroft would look after Sherlock. He would _always_ look after Sherlock.

## 5 Nasty Truths

“Your doc says you are fine to leave tomorrow.” John sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

“Yes, he told me.”

“Listen… You have your phone and all the people who… All your friends are in the contacts. Me, too, of course.” They had gone through the short list of people that the detective had considered his friends over the past years. “If you don't feel comfortable, just text or call me and I'll take you home.” Mrs Hudson had visited Sherlock in the meantime, and she had cried hard when he hadn't recognised her, either. But of course she would be there for him, always.

Sherlock scrutinised him. “Why would I not feel comfortable with my own brother?”

John took a deep breath. “What exactly do you remember about him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Hard to say. Flickers of… situations. I know who he is and I know that he's a very important man. And… strong feelings. I know I'm very close to him.”

John was stunned. Were these feelings real? Imprints of a past when the brothers _had_ been close? What Mycroft had said to him about not knowing what had actually brought them apart – it had clearly hinted at a friendly brotherly relationship. The Sherlock before yesterday had obviously forgotten about that part of his life, or he had chosen to ignore it. John had never asked him about how he and Mycroft had gotten along when Sherlock had been a child. The huge age gap meant that Mycroft had been a grown-up before Sherlock had even reached puberty. John had just assumed that they had never gotten along with each other. Apparently he had been wrong. But they had of course long ceased to be close.

“Am I not?” Sherlock asked him, his deduction powers showing through just a bit.

John had put a note under his blog, saying they were not open to taking any cases right now as they were too busy. He didn’t know if anyone would try to find out what was really happening. And he had no idea when Sherlock would be able to solve a case again. He did remember his profession but John was sure he wasn't in any condition to perform it now.

“Um… He likes you a lot, that's very clear,” he said carefully. “He didn’t even hesitate before saying you could come to him. But… close… No. No, you were not.”

“Why not? What happened?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Nobody knows that, not even Mycroft! I think it was just difficult. He left early for university. He is seven years older than you after all. And you… You did some things he didn’t approve of.”

“Like what?”

“You don't remember the drugs?”

Sherlock paled. “Drugs? Me?!”

John wished he knew how to deal with a Sherlock who had basically forgotten everything apart from basic life knowledge and Mycroft, no, _'Mycie'_. He was able to shave. He didn’t search for expressions for everyday items. But he had more or less erased his entire past… “Yes. You always said you were a user, not an addict. Not sure if that's true. You did stop. But occasionally, you returned to getting high. For cases. For me, actually… Too complicated to explain now. Solving cases became your drug then. Still you and your brother were… like cat and dog. Fighting. You were rather… harsh to him whenever he showed up. You mocked him with his weight and eating cake all the time and refused to help him if he wanted you to work on a case for the government.” To his terror, he saw a tear appearing in Sherlock's right eye. “Oh, please! Don't cry! He never resented you anything. That's very clear now. And you have the chance to be nice to him now. Talk to him. Find out if that helps you remember everything. And even if you don't, it will make you two get closer. And… he's your brother. He says he abhors sentiment but even an idiot like me can see he loves you.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Thank you. I love him, too. I'd have never thought I'd been so nasty to him. I feel so much for him.”

John resisted the urge to pinch his own thigh to make sure this conversation was really happening. Sherlock talking about feelings, his _positive_ , _loving_ feelings for his _brother_ above all, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it should be. He wondered what would happen if Sherlock's memories came back with a bang. “Listen… If you suddenly remember everything, just… don't be mean to him again. He was really depressed when he came along this morning.”

“Why?!”

“I didn’t ask him. You don't ask Mycroft Holmes why he's feeling depressed. But if I was to guess, I'd say because of what happened with your sister.”

“What did happen? You didn’t tell me!”

“I don't think…”

“Please! Tell me! I bet he won't do it either!”

John had to agree. The last thing Mycroft was probably willing to talk about was Eurus and her deadly games… “If you're sure you're ready to hear that…” Of course he knew this was a stupid thing to say. Sherlock couldn’t be sure as he had forgotten everything!

But the detective nodded vehemently. “Yes! Tell me!”

And John did. He told Sherlock how Eurus had sneaked her way into his and John's lives and he told him about the events of the showdown in Sherrinford.

Sherlock's eyes grew wider with every new development. And when John was finished, he was speechless for almost a minute. And then he said, “She did all that, and she wanted me to shoot Mycroft, and still I went there time after time to play the fucking violin with her?!”

John couldn’t help but grin for a second. The old Sherlock would have never used such an expression… But then he grew serious again. “Yes. Probably it didn’t improve Mycroft's mood, either…” He winced. “Sorry!” The last thing Sherlock needed now was an even worse conscience about his behaviour towards his brother.

“God!” Sherlock groaned, “I'm the worst little brother on earth!”

“No, Sherlock. You were just estranged from him for so long. You didn’t see the impact it had on him.” Neither had he, and it made him feel ashamed. He and Sherlock had tortured Mycroft with the scary people in his house and humiliated him when he had come to Baker Street to tell them about Eurus. Yes, they had been a nice brother and a nice friend of the brother…

Sherlock looked totally deranged now. “I can't believe I treated him so badly. And I can't believe he still wants me to come to his house…”

“He would forgive you anything, Sherlock. He loves you very much.” It was such a simple truth to speak out. Of course Mycroft would have felt embarrassed if he had heard that. But it was true, without a doubt. “I think you must definitely take the chance to repair your relationship. Show him your feelings. Not the guilty ones. But the ones you do remember of the good old days when you two were how brothers should be with each other.”

He was surprised to say the least when Sherlock took his hand and pressed it almost painfully. “Thank you so much for your advice! I feel so bad about not remembering you, but I know you're a great friend.”

John grimaced. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“What now?! Have I been mean to you as well?”

The doctor huffed out a deep sigh. “No. I was… awful to you…” He didn’t want to burden Sherlock with any more nasty truths now but he felt he had to address them now. “I… hurt you… physically… and otherwise.”

“Certainly you had a good reason,” Sherlock said with more insight than he had ever shown.

But John shook his head. “I thought I had. But in fact I was just… incapable of dealing with my own feelings and I made you pay for them. Of course, when you let me grieve for two years… But you didn’t mean any harm.”

“Tell me!”

John sighed. “I think you heard enough for today.”

“Tell me!”

And so John did. He spoke about Moriarty and Irene and the fall and the faked death, and about Mary and her secret and the shot she had fired at Sherlock, and how she had died for Sherlock in the end. When he was finished, he was crying, and so was Sherlock, who had not remembered anything of these events, and when Lestrade came along, they were clinging to each other like hurt children, but the tears took so much pain away from John, who had long forgiven Sherlock and knew he was forgiven by him.

But at the same time he felt even more pain because he had lost Sherlock again in a way, no matter how well they were getting along now, and he hoped that everything would be like before - before all the events of the past years had torn them apart.

And recalling Mycroft's sadness he hoped that until Sherlock regained his memories they would have seriously reconciled so the man who had offered to die so John could live and the man that would always be his best friend would not lose each other again.

Finally John had realised that Mycroft had to be a part of Sherlock's life so Sherlock could be truly happy. And Mycroft as well, of course.

John was aware how nastily he had always treated Sherlock's brother, and he couldn’t understand why anymore. Apart from John himself, nobody cared deeper about Sherlock than Mycroft and that had to count for something. And John knew damn well that he had failed Sherlock so much more than Mycroft had ever done.

## 6 Coming Home

Mycroft eyed his brother closely when they entered the house.

Sherlock still looked ghostly pale but he was steady on his legs. He looked around for a moment, standing in the hallway.

“You don't remember this house,” Mycroft softly said.

“No. Have I been here often?”

Mycroft smiled wryly. “Not exactly, no. Just recently though but before…” And it wasn’t as if he had _invited_ his brother to come to this place the last time. He and John Watson and their accomplices had broken in to scare him to death. But then – he had never invited him… Not because he wouldn’t have wanted him here but because he had known Sherlock would never come.

When he had come to take Sherlock here, he had at once seen that the doctor had told him a few things about their relationship. Sherlock had looked shaken and guilty, and Mycroft would have never expected to see these sentiments on his brother's face. But he hadn't craved for them. He had long ago accepted to be a silent bystander in his brother's life – unwelcome and not counting.

Yes. It had hurt him. But he had closed the shields around his heart whenever they had met. Not that it would always have worked. Sometimes his emotions for Sherlock had been on the surface, especially in times of crisis. Or when he had been drugged… He had shown too many feelings for his own taste, always regretting it afterwards as Sherlock had always reacted nastily to them.

He had shown too many feelings but thank God he had never let him see all of them…

“Come in, brother mine,” he said now. “You can lie down on the couch and I'll make tea.” John Watson had brought a big travel bag with some of Sherlock's clothes and other things he might need, and Mycroft put it onto the floor now.

Sherlock nodded with a grateful expression. “Is it really okay if I stay with you? With your job and…” He broke off, obviously not knowing how to put their estrangement in words.

“It is very much okay. But if you prefer going home to Baker Street...”

“No!”

“It's fine, Sherlock. You are very welcome to stay. But be assured that if you change your mind, I will arrange you to go home.”

“Home, you say,” Sherlock mumbled. “I don't remember it, Mycie. John showed me his blog and plenty of pictures from our flat. Before and after the explosion…”

The flat had been rebuilt in record time. The bomb had not caused as much damage as Mycroft had expected and his brother had already lived there again with the doctor and his child for a couple of days after staying in John's flat after Sherrinford.

“I don't recall any of it. Any of them. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Molly Hooper. I met them and I know their faces but I have no memories of them. I can't go back to a life I don't recall. But I do recall _you_. So I want to stay with you. I don't recall this house either but that doesn't matter.”

“You can stay, as I said. For as long as you want. I might need to go to the office should an emergency occur.”

“That is no problem at all. I'm not an invalid. But I feel… safe with you. And even if you go for a while, I will still feel safe here because I know you will come back.”

Mycroft all but gaped at him. What the hell had happened to his snarky little brother who abhorred sentiments as much as he did? At least between the two of them…

“Does that make you feel uncomfortable?” Sherlock mercilessly asked him. “Me being so open?”

Mycroft shook his head with conviction. “No. I… welcome it. It's just… unexpected.”

“I figure. But I know you can help me. Getting back the memories.”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. As soon as he had them, he would go. But there was no question how to respond to this. “Of course I will do whatever I can so you can return to your normal life.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “I didn’t mean that. I want to remember all about us, you and me. That's much more important than anything else.”

Mycroft dug his nails into his palms to make sure he was not dreaming or hallucinating, and before he could think it over he said, “If I had known it just took a blow to your head to bring you back into my life, I would have hit you myself years ago.” And then his cheeks flamed up. “Oh God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was an awful thing to say.”

But Sherlock grinned at him, for the first time since… well… ever? “No, it's great! That was funny! And it shows you do like me.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” **_Like_** _you?!_ If he had just known how much… He looked away before his feelings could show on his face. “Come now,” he said hoarsely. “Time to place you on the couch and get some hot tea into you.” And into himself. For the first time in weeks he didn’t crave for booze instead…

“Tea is always good.”

“So you do remember that?” Mycroft smiled.

“I'm still British! I'll always remember tea! Do you have biscuits by any chance?”

“I do. And I think I even have cake.” Mycroft held his breath and then he bit his lip when Sherlock blushed. The doctor had indeed told him a few things…

“Cake would be great,” Sherlock mumbled. “But only if you share it with me.”

Mycroft couldn’t help it. He reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek. It was warm and soft under his hand. “I gladly will,” he assured him.

And then he gasped when Sherlock flung himself into his arms but there was nothing to do than holding his suddenly so cuddly little brother, and he would have gladly done it forever.

## 7 Cake And Conversation

Sherlock didn’t feel much pain, the painkillers numbing the otherwise throbbing bump on his forehead. Still he felt… very strange. Kind of weak. A physical and psychological weakness. He was happy he could lie down, and he gratefully smiled at his brother when he gave him a blanket and stuffed it around him before he left to make tea.

What was left of a man who couldn’t remember his own friends? Any details of his job? He did remember that he was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. But he knew without having tried it that he would not be of any help to anyone right now. His deduction powers had not vanished completely but the rudiments that were left would never be sufficient for doing his job.

And he didn’t want to.

He remembered in a distant sort of way that he had always struggled with his noisy brain, craving for attention and occupation all the time. He had forgotten about the drugs he had taken to silence it. It had been very interesting to read John's blog about all his accomplishments, and he had looked at his own website. Some cases did seem to ring a bell. A very quiet, distant bell. Fragments of deductions. But it had not brought back his memory in any way.

And it didn’t matter.

His brain was silent now. Or rather was it working like every man's brain, he assumed. He could still think. He still knew what a chair was for and what it was called. He remembered the taste of Earl Grey. Of coffee. How to dress and how to speak. Everything else, everything regarding himself and his friends… seemed to be just out of reach. It was as if he was kept in a huge bubble, the people he had used to spend time with floating outside of it, with no connection to him.

John Watson, his alleged best friend, seemed like a very decent man. A decent man with some anger issues. He even recalled this expression… He did trust him. From what John had told him, rough times were behind them. But they were - behind them.

It wasn’t that surprising that John had reacted badly to him returning from the case he had had to work on alone – bringing down Moriarty's web. Perhaps that could have been handled differently. And his loose tongue had made this woman shoot at him, killing John's wife instead. Sherlock did understand that John had been devastated and angry at him. He didn’t remember being beaten and kicked by him. Obviously he had forgiven John. And John had forgiven him. It would have been fine, he supposed, if he could only remember a day they had spent together.

He looked up from his brooding when his brother came back into the room, carrying a tray. His heart made a little jump. It was nearly the same as with the cases but way more meaningful – he saw fragments of memories of their childhood. Short glimpses. He didn’t see the sister they apparently had. But he did see Mycroft. A chubby Mycroft with lots of dark hair, and lots of freckles on his shoulders. He remembered slinging his arms around the older boys' neck. He remembered Mycroft picking him up and whirling him around. Fragments of situations but a world of emotions. He had loved Mycroft so much.

And he still did.

He didn’t actually care what had made them part ways. Probably just the age difference and the fact that his brother had left home at an early age to become a very important figure in the government, burdened by a little brother who relentlessly endangered his own health and caused heaps of trouble. The entire situation causing resentments which were explainable even though he couldn’t remember them. When he saw Mycroft, when he thought of Mycroft, all he sensed and felt was love. He loved his big brother, and his big brother without a doubt loved him.

“There you go,” Mycroft said with his beautiful calm voice. Deep but not as deep as Sherlock's. Very melodic. He looked different than the day before. His suit and his tie were perfectly matching. His hair was impeccable, his face neatly shaven.

He provided Sherlock with hot tea and a generous slice of chocolate cake. He seemed hesitant to take one himself.

“You promised,” Sherlock reminded him.

Mycroft looked confused for a moment but then he smiled. “I did.” And he took a slice about half the size of Sherlock's but Sherlock didn’t comment on it.

Apparently he had teased and mocked his brother with his weight so of course Mycroft was careful. But why had he, Sherlock, done that? Was he stupid? His brother was very tall and he was not in the least overweight. His legs in his slim suit looked well-trained.

Sherlock didn’t know much about himself but what he had heard so far made him look like a total arsehole. Especially towards his brother. And he didn’t need John Watson's advice to be determined to never be like this to Mycroft again.

“S'very good, that cake,” he said with his mouth full.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes for just a second before a genuine smile appeared on his face. “I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock. Help yourself; you can have as much as you like.”

“How did you call me?” Sherlock demanded to know. “I called you 'Mycie' but did you have a nickname for me, too?”

“Oh. Yes. I called you Lockie. Well… Long ago…”

“Do it again, would you?”

Mycroft nodded seriously. “If you think that will help you.”

“I want us to be what we once were, just as adults. I want us to be close.”

Mycroft swallowed and he looked away. “That would be wonderful,” he said very quietly.

“Good. And now I want more cake.”

For the first time he heard Mycroft chuckle. “What Lockie wants, Lockie gets. It has always been like this.”

That sounded very promising. But this wasn’t all about him. “What Mycie wants, Mycie gets, too,” he said.

A flicker of sadness ghosted over his brother's face, and Sherlock was relieved he had even noticed it, even though of course that was not the reaction he wanted to see. “I mean that,” he stressed. He only now realised that he had to sound a bit like a child. But he understood that he had long ceased to be open about his feelings and so he obviously chose a language that didn’t sound quite adult even though he didn’t feel like a child at all. He would get there.

Mycroft smiled. “I know you do. And I'm glad.”

There was something Sherlock knew he didn’t get but he didn’t ask, not needing genius-brain-capacity to know that his brother wouldn’t tell him. But he would be here for a while. He would figure it out. And he would not leave this house without having a perfect relationship with big brother; a perfect relationship forever.

## 8 Getting Closer

When they had finished tea and cake and Sherlock looked seriously satisfied, Mycroft brought the tray back into the kitchen and then came back, proceeding to sit down in his armchair in front of the couch and therefore Sherlock.

But Sherlock – Lockie – shook his head. “Closer. Come closer.”

Mycroft tensed. That was not a good idea… So far the shock about what had happened to his little brother had numbed his reactions to the physical contact Sherlock had inflicted on him but now… It was not safe…

But Sherlock all but glowered at him. “I scrubbed myself this morning. John brought me everything, even deodorant.”

“I never said you… don't smell good.” In fact he smelled divine…

“Good. So come closer.”

Sherlock did remind him in many ways of the child he had been. Always straightforward, always clearly saying what he wanted. Perhaps that hadn't changed so much about him anyway but he had never wanted anything from Mycroft anymore except for being left alone by him… And of course he was very glad these times were over.

At Sherlock's glare, he nodded and sat down next to the armrest of the couch that was the furthest away from Sherlock. And he wasn’t overly surprised when Sherlock turned and settled against his shoulder. Yes, he had been like this. Cuddly and always searching for physical contact. It had been totally fine when he had been a child. But he wasn't anymore. He was a beautiful, fascinating man with broad shoulders and a devastatingly strong charisma.

And Mycroft had fallen for him many years ago.

Desperately, hopelessly fallen for his own little brother.

And he had become aware of that during nothing else than their grandmother's funeral…

He hadn't been at home for almost two years. Sherlock had been seventeen when Grandma Holmes had died in her sleep. Mycroft had to return of course, and he had seen a young man in front of the church, tall and lanky and with a mess of black curls and he had simultaneously thought, 'My God, he is beautiful' and realised this was Sherlock who had become a man in those two years…

He had fought those feelings with all he'd had. He had never got rid of them but he was sure Sherlock had never realised them. He had been twenty-four after all and already a household name in the government. He, the Iceman, had known how to hide these feelings.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said now.

“Hm? What for?”

“For going to this prison to visit her – our sister.”

“Oh… Well… I did wonder why you're doing that.”

“But you didn’t ask me?”

Mycroft smiled. “No. We… didn’t have much contact after… what she did. I accompanied you and our parents there to listen to you two playing the violin. Once.”

“You didn’t like it.”

“Of course I liked your play. You're virtuous on the violin. I wonder…”

“Do you have one?”

“No. But you do, of course. We could ask John to bring it over or I could go to Baker Street and fetch it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's not important.”

“Isn't it? I think it helped you. It helped you think.”

“Won't help me now, if I can still play it or not.”

“No, probably not.”

“So you like our play but you didn’t like me to go to her.”

It was Mycroft's turn to shrug. “I didn’t see what good it would do. She is not responsive. Yes, she did smile a bit and she played duets with you but…”

“She's a monster and she killed people and wanted me to kill you. I was a total jerk to go there,” Sherlock stated calmly.

“No, you just… tried to be a good brother for her.”

“Well, I don't seem to have much practice in being a good brother.”

Sherlock's directness was a little disconcerting. And exhausting… Mycroft settled for “You are what you are.”

He didn’t get far with that attempt. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked. “An arsehole? A smug, arrogant fucker who hurt your feelings all the time and then crowned this with bonding with someone who wanted to see you dead even though nobody has ever been nearly as important to me as you are?”

Mycroft gasped. “Well, that's… John Watson is the most important person in your life, Sherlock… Lockie. I was, I think, when you were a child. Since then it didn’t work anymore.”

“And still I remember you but I don't remember anything of the time with John.”

That was indeed remarkable of course. “Perhaps it's just that part of your memory that was erased. You remember the time when you were much younger but not the past couple of years. It has probably nothing to do with me.”

Sherlock's face got cloudy. “I do recall parts of my cases. And I know you have a PA… A woman with long, dark hair… I don't remember her name but she's rather pretty and rather scary.”

Mycroft was taken aback. “Anthea. That's Anthea. Wow…”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“What?! No! I'm…” Mycroft broke off, stupidly blushing.

“Gay?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nodded. “So am I.”

“You're sure about that? There was a woman who…”

Sherlock made a denying gesture with his hand. “John told me. Nah. I'm gay, like you.”

In Sherrinford, Mycroft had got to know that Irene was still alive and that Sherlock had indeed fooled him all this time ago. He had saved her, obviously. However he had managed to do that under the eyes of the Secret Service… This information had rather got lost in the whirlwind of events since then… And now that Sherlock had obviously also forgotten about Adler, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“So… No girlfriend,” Sherlock said. “Boyfriend?”

Mycroft blushed. “No. No boyfriend, either.”

“I suppose I don't have one, either, right? John didn’t mention it…”

“No. You are not… interested in people like this.”

“And you?”

Mycroft tried not to blush harder. “Um, no. Me neither.”

Sherlock stared at him and he felt very uncomfortable under his burning gaze. But Sherlock was not in the state to deduce the truth, thank God. “Good.” And then he shuffled on the couch and lay his head onto Mycroft's lap. “Too smart for silly people,” he mumbled.

Mycroft was frozen in shock. He had never had any part of Sherlock so close to his crotch. At least not since Sherlock had grown up. Child Sherlock had sat on his lap more than once and it had never caused any unwelcome feelings in him. Man Sherlock was a completely different story. He forced his threatening erection down with all the self-control he could find in himself.

“Want to nap now. Okay?” Sherlock said, staring at him from down there.

“Yes,” Mycroft rasped out. “Sure. Just sleep.”

“Have you ever sung songs for me when I was little?”

“Um, no. I can't sing I'm afraid. I told you pirate stories. You wanted to be a pirate.”

Sherlock smiled. “I am, in a way.”

_Oh yes. You robbed my heart…_

“Tell me a story,” Sherlock asked, his eyes closed again.

Mycroft dug in his mind but before he could come up with anything, Sherlock had fallen asleep.

And Mycroft sat still and just watched him. And eventually he lifted a hand and ever so gently stroked a stray curl out of Sherlock's face.

He looked so vulnerable and sweet with the white bandage on his forehead and his relaxed features.

His little brother.

The man he loved.

But he may never know it.

## 9 Searching For Memories

“Is it all right if I go buy some things for dinner?”

“Sure it is. I'll watch some telly.” Mycroft smiled and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Oh, it's just that you hate that.”

“Oh, I see. What about you?”

“Well… I do like to watch films. Mostly DVDs. I'm old-fashioned…”

“Judging from your suits, you surely are.”

Mycroft didn’t miss the twinkle in Sherlock's eyes. It was fine to be teased like this. But that had almost been the old Sherlock, just nicer. “Don't be cheeky,” he reprimanded him but his tone clearly said he didn’t mean it.

“Will try my best.”

Reluctantly Mycroft left his brother alone to buy some ingredients for a nice dinner. He hardly ever cooked but now that he had such a special guest…

It took him an hour to get everything he wanted, and when he came back, Sherlock was cuddled up on the couch, the television was off.

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock nodded. “Mummy called,” he said then.

“Oh, damn…” He should have phoned up their parents.

“She called to have a visit to this Sherrinford prison arranged and was told you're not at work. That doesn’t happen often I assume?”

“No. No, it really does not. So?”

Sherlock smiled. “We had a nice talk. Told her about the bump on my head and that you're looking after me. She was relieved, I think.”

“So you…”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. No memories of either her or our father whatsoever. But she didn’t notice.”

“Oh… I'm sorry…”

Sherlock tilted his head. “It's only _you_ I remember.”

Mycroft nodded. “It seems so. I will show you pictures! Of our childhood, of our parents. Should have thought of that before.”

“We can look at them. But I doubt it will bring back memories about the others. But I might recall the things we did together better.” Sherlock did sound rather enthusiastic.

“After dinner, okay?”

“Sure.” Sherlock got up. “I will help you prepare it.”

“No, you really don't have to…”

“Please. Can't imagine I can cook but I can cut things.”

“If you are sure… But please don't cut your fingers.”

“You will kiss it better if I do,” Sherlock stated and stalked out of the room. Mycroft stared at him, speechless. “You're coming?”

The older man swallowed. “Yes.”

This situation was incredibly strange.

And he remembered that he _had_ kissed the small injuries Sherlock had suffered as a child, and so did Sherlock, obviously. It had been cute and innocent. But Sherlock was not a child anymore.

Nothing about Mycroft's feelings for him was innocent.

He'd better make sure his brother's fingers stayed unhurt.

*****

“Who's that?!”

Mycroft smiled. “That's Uncle Rudy. Has passed away five years ago but that is him at his prime…”

“I'd have rather thought it's Aunt Rudine,” Sherlock mumbled, but there was something in his voice that caught Mycroft's attention apart from the joke he chuckled about.

“Do you… remember him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I might. In a very distant way. Perhaps it's a false memory; it's hard to say. But I seem to remember how he walked. On his high heels… Rather clumsy but… He used to wiggle his arse…”

“Yes! That's great!”

“What, Uncle Rudy's arse?” Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft beamed at him. “Smartarse! You! And the memories seem to come back. Here, this is our grandmother.” His face darkened for a moment as he recalled the funeral. How he had realised he had fallen for his own little brother. How he had avoided touching him in any way. Sherlock's surprised and hurt looks.

And after that, Sherlock had always looked hurt when they had – rarely enough – met. How did he only realise this now?

“I can't remember anything about her,” Sherlock said in a sad voice. “How can I know about Uncle Rudy's way to walk but have forgotten about our grandmother?!”

Mycroft reached out and rubbed his shoulder. “The brain is not so easy to comprehend. There is so much we still don't know about it.”

“But I haven't suffered any brain damage. Perhaps it's just… psychosomatic…”

Was that possible? Had this bump somehow activated the hidden shocks of Sherrinford? Because what other traumatic experience should have caused this?

Mycroft wished he had pictures of Eurus as an adult. Perhaps it would open the wound completely so it could heal.

But then – perhaps it had something to do with the violence Sherlock had suffered from John's hands. Mycroft had only got to know about it days after it and Sherlock had already forgiven the doctor by then. They had always been so close; Mycroft had been rather sure Sherlock wouldn’t want him to interfere and punish John for his horrible behaviour. And his brother had seemed to recover very quickly from it. But what if it had hurt him deeper than either of them had thought?

He knew it was futile to ponder about the reasons for Sherlock's amnesia. A very selective, partial amnesia. Damn, Sherlock even remembered Anthea! Not by name but by appearance. It was strange but Mycroft was very sure it would go away and Sherlock would get back all his memories. The only question was when.

Mycroft was in no hurry.

They had prepared their dinner side by side and it had been nothing else than nice. Sherlock had been surprisingly skilful with the knife when he had cut the various sorts of vegetables. No cuts Mycroft would have had to kiss better. And he tried to not be disappointed about that…

Then they had eaten while listening to Bach, and Mycroft had felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for… ages.

Having Sherlock by his side, a Sherlock who wasn't snarky and insolent but kind and even cuddly was like heaven. He knew he shouldn’t get used to it. But he wished that whatever happened, they would not become what they had been for way too long again. He wanted to keep this sweet, lovable Sherlock.

But of course he had always loved him, snarky and insulting or not. This Sherlock was just way easier to love… And Sherlock welcomed this love and returned it, and that was a feeling Mycroft had not had since his brother had been a child. And damn – he didn’t want to miss this feeling again…

Sherlock was skimming through the photo album but he didn’t ask for any persons anymore. Clearly he didn’t remember anyone of their extended family. If Mycroft was honest, he didn’t think this was any loss at all…

“Would you like to watch a film with me before we go to bed?” he suggested and then blushed as he realised this almost sounded as if he was asking his brother for a date.

Which he had deep inside wanted to do for about twenty years…

Sherlock stared at him and he hoped his thoughts didn’t show on his face. “Yes,” Sherlock said then. “Perhaps it will help me sleep.”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “All right; I will choose something really boring.”

Sherlock grinned. “Sorry?”

Mycroft took his wrist and for a moment he wondered if Sherlock's sudden preference for physical contact had been infectious. “No, dear. You don't have to be sorry for anything.” Obviously being open about his feelings was equally infectious. But Sherlock didn’t find it odd. The old Sherlock would have just snorted, he guessed.

“You know what? I doubt that very, very much. As soon as I remember every nasty word I said to you, I will profoundly apologise for each and every one of it.”

“We'll be busy until Christmas,” Mycroft said without thinking, and Sherlock huffed out a rather bitter laugh.

“I believe that in a second. Come one, choose the film and come to me.” He threw himself into the corner of the couch, and Mycroft nodded and did as he was told.

Cuddling with the brother he had desired for decades in front of a romantic film.

It sounded like taking the road to doom. And he _would_ take it. If it meant being close to Sherlock, if only for a short time, he would not miss this chance.

## 10 Telly Time

“This is not overly realistic, I think,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

His head was leaning heavily against Mycroft's shoulder, and the older brother had of course had to put his arm around Sherlock to make sure he didn’t slip away and hurt his head even more.

Mycroft grinned. “You really think so?”

“Well… I don't have any experiences with this… love-stuff but I don't think it works quite like this…”

Of course he was right. Saving a beautiful young woman from a killer that had wanted to rape and strangle her just to end up in bed with her right away was not really what would probably happen in such a situation. At least the sex was only hinted at. Mycroft would have died on his couch if there had been any explicit scene. And of course he wouldn’t have wanted to watch this anyway. But this was a piece from the fifties. Everything was just hinted at. No blood, no manhandled corpses, the woman pure and innocent. Well, maybe not quite that innocent… Mycroft knew this film had caused a scandal back in the day. Today most people probably just laughed at it. He had no idea why he took to such films at all.

“I think you are right,” he agreed and took a sip of his drink. Just the one. Just because… Sherlock was so close…

“Have you never craved for this?” Sherlock asked him in his now typical directness.

“Have I ever wanted to throw myself between a girl and a murderer and then take advantage of her? No.” It was a rather lame attempt at a joke but he didn’t exactly like this question.

“You know what I mean… Love… Relationship… All this stuff.”

Mycroft tensed even though of course he had seen it coming. This was dangerous territory. Because naturally he'd had. And he did. Only that the man in question was completely out of the question. “Well… I think it was not meant for me,” he replied vaguely.

“Do you really believe in that? Destiny? One person in the entire world that is meant for someone and somehow you were left out of this arrangement of a higher power?”

“No. I just… I don't think I want to go on watching this.” Mycroft grabbed the remote but Sherlock stopped his hand.

“I'm sorry. I didn’t want to upset you and spoil your enjoyment of this film.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smiling. The old Sherlock would have given a very different remark… But the old Sherlock would have never sat down to watch a film with him to begin with, let alone with his head against his shoulder. “Don't you worry. I think it's time for bed now anyway.”

“Yes, I guess so. I'm rather tired. Wonder why I'm tiring so quickly even though I'm merely sitting around.”

“The stress. The shock. The worry,” Mycroft offered as explanations.

But Sherlock shook his head. “None of them. I'm not feeling stressed, worried, or shocked. Why would I? My big brother is taking care of me.”

It was almost too much. Mycroft was on the verge of either screaming, running out of his own house or kissing the living daylights out of his brother, and it took all of his self-control to not do each of these things right now, not necessarily in this order… “That's my job,” he mumbled but his hand seemed to cramp around Sherlock's shoulder harder by itself. “I… prepared one of the guest rooms for you. You have your own bathroom.”

Hadn't he known what was coming now? Of course he had… Had he hoped for Sherlock suggesting it? Yes and no. _Yes_ because of course he didn’t want Sherlock to sleep in another room, and _no_ because it was madness to allow him to not do it.

“That's very kind of you but… would you mind if I slept in your bed? If it's big enough for both of us, that is.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “If you prefer that… My bed is king size, no problem.” Not that this mattered, did it? Given Sherlock's new preference for cuddling with him, he would in all probability not stay on his side of the bed…

“Great.” Sherlock sounded genuinely pleased, and Mycroft was genuinely terrified.

Of course he didn’t show it. “Well then. Let's go upstairs.” Go upstairs to shower and dress into pyjamas and slip under the huge blanket, side by side with a hardly clothed Sherlock who would search for body contact at once so Mycroft would feel his muscular, hot body through nothing else than two layers of extremely thin, silky fabric. Nothing spectacular or worrying about that…

Sherlock smiled and looked up to him with nothing else than puppy eyes. “You're the best big brother in the world, Mycie.”

And Mycroft prepared for spending the night next to and probably partly _under_ this breathtakingly handsome man, the cutest and most desirable baby brother in the world.

God help him.

## 11 Bed Time

It was happening by instinct. As soon as they were both lying under the thick blanket, the bedside lamp still switched on, Sherlock put his head onto his brother's chest.

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_

Mycroft's heart was racing. So were Sherlock's thoughts. Something about this… stirred him up.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked his older brother.

“Sure I am,” Mycroft croaked and it was clear as day that he was lying.

He was so tense, so nervous. But there was no question that he didn’t find the body contact yucky.

Again by instinct, Sherlock lifted his head to kiss his brother's cheek, and something in him shifted. Flickers of memories….

He proceeded to do it again, brushing his lips on the other's cheek, but in this moment Mycroft turned his head and Sherlock kissed his lips instead, and Mycroft gasped but he didn’t pull back.

And all the memories came back. There was John, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Mary, and Rosie, and Molly, his parents and Eurus and his whole life, back within the blink of an eye.

But Sherlock didn’t really care. He remembered something else as well, something that had been so deeply buried in him that he had forgotten about it long ago. It had been hidden behind a secret door in his Mind Palace but now the door was wide open.

Sherlock, with seventeen, at his grandmother's funeral. Mycroft, coming home after ages. Looking at him in such a strange way. Keeping his distance, avoiding touching him. But Sherlock had touched his hand, as if by accident. And it had been as if getting in contact with high voltage. The realisation that he had not only been missing his brother but that he had been missing the man. The beautiful, tall, fascinating man his brother had become.

This had not been brotherly affection. It had been romantic longing. And Sherlock had immediately stopped thinking about it, stopped feeling it. But it had never gone away; it had simply been _locked_ away. Somehow it had taken a blow on the head to dig out these memories, and he had done it by temporarily forgetting anything that could distract him from it.

Was there any doubt that Mycroft was feeling the same way? Hadn't he brought this distance between them on that day and forever after because he was struggling with the same forbidden sentiments? Wasn't his pulse racing now like mad? Weren't his eyes wide open, his hands on Sherlock shivering?

“Mycie,” he said. “My Mycie.”

“Sherlock…”

“No. Lockie.”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “Yes. Always.”

And Sherlock crashed their mouths together and he could feel his brother's resistance vanishing. And then Mycroft was kissing him back, his hands sliding over Sherlock's back and sides.

Sherlock let himself melt into this kiss for a moment, debauching in Mycroft's warmth and taste and the probing pressure of his tongue against Sherlock's, but then he pulled back to get rid of his pyjama top. “Need to feel you.” He grabbed for Mycroft's shirt and his brother stiffened but then he gave in and let Sherlock free him from the silky shirt.

Sherlock buried his face into Mycroft's wiry chest hair, touching his bare belly. It was flat but softer than his own, hairy and warm and wonderful.

“Oh God, Sherlock. Lockie. You will hate me tomorrow. And when you remember everything…”

Sherlock lifted his head. “I do,” he simply said. “When we kissed, it all came back.”

“What?! And you still want this?!”

Long violinist fingers found Mycroft's warm cheek. “I will always want this. I have for twenty years. And so have you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Yes. But we shouldn’t…”

“Says society. Says the law. Not us.”

And Sherlock's lips found Mycroft's again and there was a mere second of hesitation before the kiss was returned so passionately that Sherlock's brain got all numb and it was the best feeling he'd ever had.

His hand slid down on Mycroft's stomach, deeper and deeper, and his brother gasped when it found a body part that Sherlock had never thought he would touch, and yet it felt just perfect in his hand, as heavy, warm and mighty as it was, and he started stroking it, probingly at first but then firm and wanting.

*****

Surely there was a special place in hell for a man who let his little brother touch his throbbing erection, or so people would say. But Mycroft, despite his prophetic words about Sherrinford, didn’t believe in hell, and heaven had to be this feeling – being loved and desired by the most desirable man he had ever seen. And that Sherlock did want him and desired him was hardly questionable.

A thrilled look on his face, Sherlock stared down on his own hand that was sliding up and down on Mycroft's length through his pyjama pants and underwear.

Mycroft took a deep breath when he stopped doing that just to free him from the restraining rest of his clothes. Sherlock didn’t ask for permission and of course he didn’t have to.

Mycroft's large member seemed to snuggle into his brother's hand as soon as it was firmly gripped, and Sherlock let his fingers explore him with variating pressure.

The older brother could do nothing but gaze at these scandalous actions and be in awe of Sherlock's talent. He had certainly practiced a bit with himself but Mycroft was sure he had never done it for someone else.

And even more than Sherlock's increasingly skilled stroking it was this knowledge that drove him over the edge way too soon. He groaned and spilled over Sherlock's pumping, pressing hand, gripping his brother's shoulder hard while he was shuddering through his climax.

Sherlock caressed him until he was truly finished and collapsed into the pillows, and then he took off his own pants and presented a mirror image of Mycroft's impressive cock. They were indeed brothers…

“Please…”

“Lie down, little brother,” Mycroft said, way past any guilty feelings now. The mark was overstepped, all limits crashed down and all they could do now was embracing it and enjoying it. And there was so much to enjoy about his beautiful brother's body.

*****

Sherlock's hands were both clamped into his brother's shoulders why Mycroft was caressing him with his mouth, tongue and fingers. They seemed to be everywhere, nibbling, stroking and licking Sherlock's skin, oversensitive from never having been touched like this, devoured like this, loved like this.

It wasn’t as if he'd been suddenly the old Sherlock again – it was more like merging, the memories that had come back so easily by nothing else than a kiss, and the feelings that had been unleashed before. It was like getting whole, as much as Sherlock usually despised such clichés. He would get back to his normal life but not so soon. Mycroft had taken a week off work after all. Of course John and Greg and Mrs Hudson were worried about him and he knew it wasn't fair to let them believe he still didn’t remember them. But he knew he and Mycroft only had these few days to build a foundation for their life together that would survive having to steal moments together, being nearly as snarky as before. They wouldn’t have to pull off the archenemy-number any longer but they also couldn’t show how close they now were. And inevitably they would hurt each other; Sherlock was aware that lovers did, if they wanted it or not. And since they were both so inexperienced in this romance stuff, they would have to be very careful to not destroy what they just had found.

Sherlock wanted these days alone with his brother so their relationship would not break over the difficulties they would have to face. He wanted this to last as he had definitely realised one thing over the past days: Mycroft was the single most important person in his life. He trusted him with his life, he deeply cared for him and he desired him. Mycroft was his caretaker, his brother and his lover now, and Sherlock knew he needed all this.

So when Mycroft was devouring him now, he could feel the bond between them deepening and he knew he would not allow it to ever break again.

“This is forever, right?” he asked, just to be sure.

Mycroft lifted his head and his swollen, pink lips turned into a smile. “Yes, of course, brother mine. Not going to let you get away again.”

“Good. But now that I'm remembering everything, be prepared to hear all the apologies.”

“No need for that. I'd rather hear you scream my name.”

“Mycroft!”

“No! Mycie!”

Sherlock smiled. Yes. Mycie.

And then he didn’t think anymore but just fell into the tenderness his brother showered him with, let his nerve-endings vibrate with want and need, and when Mycroft closed his lips around his swollen crown, he indeed screamed his name, coming at once, and then he let himself be held, petted and loved.

The End


End file.
